Moretum
by Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker
Summary: His heart started to race, and to him the beats sounded like the seconds of a timer, ticking down until game over. Morishipping HondaxYami Bakura, Protectshipping HondaxRyou.
1. Moretum

Title: Moretum

Author: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

Summary: His heart started to race, and to him the beats sounded like the seconds of a timer, ticking down until _game over_. Morishipping HondaxYami Bakura.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

Notes: Written for round Ten of Compy's YGO Contest: Morishipping, with a side ship of Protectshipping. Soul Room story #4, again you don't have to read the other three, but this references _Mind Games_ quite a bit… reading that one will also give you an insight into how I view Bakura. I really like both Bakura and Tristan, and when I was watching the ending season, in episode 214 I couldn't help but wonder, 'well where did Tristan go?' Here, I provide an answer.

* * *

"_Man is but the dream of a shadow…"_

_--Pindar, Pythian 8.95_

* * *

Tristan woke up to a throbbing pain in his head, blinking at the harsh lighting and chatter from indiscernible voices around him. "What's going on?" He sat up in his chair and looked around. _Way to go, Tristan, class hasn't even started and you're already falling asleep_. He mumbled a barely coherent "here" when his name was called for attendance before shifting his attention to the window next to his desk. _It's so foggy outside…I can barely see anything! That's never any good…_ Resting his chin in one hand, Tristan concentrated on the low, droning voice of his teacher. He couldn't decide which was more interesting… the teacher or the fog.

He had been having the strangest dream… He was with all of his friends, and they were in Ancient Egypt. It could have been a dream version of Ancient Egypt; he had no idea what it would have looked like. They were there for a reason, too… but he couldn't remember. It was strange, because the dream in question had felt so real. He felt his eyelids drooping, his mind drifting in that liminal state between dreaming and waking when he swore that he could hear the thunder of horses' hooves and if he moved his arms down sand would sift out of the cuffs.

The class bell jolted Tristan out of his stupor.

Without a word he stood up and left. Class seemed so foreign to him now, what with all the tournaments going on recently, and he felt almost disoriented walking into the hallway. He vaguely remembered something about duels from his dream… had he been the one dueling? Was it Yugi? Tristan wondered why he was trying so hard to remember a dream that couldn't possibly be real. He couldn't think of anything else, he couldn't jolt the idea. How much of it was a dream?

"Oh! Sorry about that." Looking down, he didn't even notice that he had walked into someone. "Are you o…kay…"

The person he walked into had no face.

"Woah!" Tristan blurted out, nearly smacking his head against the door in his haste to look away. Risking another peek… he was still there. He was also still, well… faceless.

The guy didn't appear to notice him (_but how _could_ he?_), breezing past him into the classroom. It was then that he started to notice it. The hallway began to flood with people, their voices too loud for him to piece together an individual conversation, and as his gaze jumped from person to person, each one of them was utterly devoid of any individualizing features.

_He_ was the only one…

Tristan ran one hand across an eyebrow and down to his nose to make sure they were still there. He wanted to run back into the classroom, but… _that guy_ was in there. Everyone else was in the hallway; he didn't want to be out _here_ either. He couldn't even remember what class he had next, where he had to be or how long he had to be there. It was all so strange… what was going on?

"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?"

Tristan jumped, the skin on his arms instantly prickling from surprise and something a little more powerful. He knew whose voice it was… he wasn't sure. It sounded like Ryou, but it also sounded like _him_. But how was that possible… where was he?

"Now you're asking the right questions."

Tristan's eyes locked upon _him_, that voice which didn't seem to fit, and he couldn't help the uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach that something was very wrong.

He spun around in a perfect circle, and the transformation was over in the time it took for him to blink. His hair was suddenly longer, wilder; the school uniform changing to a dark fitted jacket, and his laugh… he knew that laugh. "You're the spirit of the Ring."

"Bravo." Tristan blinked again, and their surroundings changed; the walls becoming impossibly long, framed with molding and draped with satin. The room felt empty in the darkness, and Tristan felt more powerless than he cared to admit. Bakura stood on the stage, a single spotlight illuminating him, his shadow magnified along the wall. He held out both hands and bowed. "You still have two more questions without answers, and I'm not sure I'm in a talkative mood."

"You monster! What have you done?" Tristan's voice echoed.

"Ask yourself: you are here by your own doing. Don't you remember?" Bakura smirked, and so did his shadow.

"_This is for the Pharaoh!" _

Tristan's body turned, again and again, until he was once again facing the stage. He knew that voice; it was his own. When had he said that?

"I didn't foresee that you would try to attack me like that, but I used you to my advantage." Bakura chuckled, his fingers running over the metal of the Ring. It glinted in the spotlight. "Your mind was pathetically easy to take over."

"You… what…?" Tristan didn't want to believe him, but couldn't think of any other option that explained anything. "How dare you!" He charged towards the stage, his hands instinctively curling into fists.

He stopped just short of the stage. _It didn't seem that high up before…_

"Since you no longer have a physical form, your mind, intolerably enough, is now… here. In my world." His eyes shone in the light. "I doubt your mind could put together, no less comprehend, the intricacies of this space, of the many rooms that my soul provides, of just how twisted I am…"

"Are you talking about Ryou?" The stage seemed normal height now, and Bakura looked him in the eye, his posture triumphant.

"…Possibly."

Without thinking, Tristan leaped onto the stage, his arm flying back, then forwards, connecting with Bakura's cheekbone. "Bastard! You don't have a soul!"

Bakura and his shadow stumbled backwards, his shoulders hunched over, an almost… _giggle?_ escaping from his bloodied lips. "I almost forgot," he gasped, his eyes knowing. "You like him, don't you?"

Tristan was advancing, ready to punch him again, but Bakura caught the fist almost too easily, twisting his arm back until he couldn't move, his shoulders shaking with anger, his back to Bakura. He faced the dark expanse; he could see his own shadow helpless on the wall. "You hide it pretty well, but I can tell." His voice was a whisper, the projection of each word bringing a puff of air to the back of Tristan's shirt collar. "Do you want to know where Ryou is?"

"Tell me what you did with him!" Tristan considered stomping on Bakura's foot, but at the thought he could feel his arm twisting more, bringing him closer to the man he despised.

"You're in my world, don't forget," Bakura chastised, leaning down to whisper in Tristan's ear. "You follow my rules… and I'm not exactly known to play fair."

"So now this is some sort of game?"

"Is not everything part of a bigger game?" Bakura smiled, and his mind briefly flickered back to a table in the middle of a shadowy void, set with two players and the highest of stakes. "You're here, in my mind. Ryou, also, is here in my mind. Find him, and you win. If you lose, then you're mine. In more than body, but your mind, your soul—_mine_."

Tristan couldn't see Bakura but he knew that he was grinning, already taking his victory. He wasn't about to go down that easily. Especially when there was more than just his own fate at stake.

"And like I said… I don't play fair." He released Tristan, who immediately brought his arm, tingly from the release of force, back to rest naturally at his side. "I know what you're thinking. You want to find Ryou so that you can _protect_ him—"

"I want to protect him from people like you!" Tristan circled once more, his eyes blazing at how calm Bakura looked.

"You're doing a remarkable job of it." Bakura looked bored. It was infuriating. "Now, you're racing against the clock. And remember—while you're trapped in here, your body is my pawn, and your pitiful friends don't even realize it yet… wonder how long it will take? …I wonder what I can do in that time."

"And when does the clock start?" Tristan's voice appeared angry but he knew that it was a front. He was nervous—he had every right to be? This was a test, and he was always terrible at tests. His heart started to race, and to him the beats sounded like the seconds of a timer, ticking down until _game over_…

"Five minutes ago."

A loud buzzer sounded, and suddenly the lights came back on. Blinking furiously, Tristan found himself back in the school's gymnasium, the age-worn cinderblock walls and wooden floors blinding in contrast to his previous surroundings. He was standing on the stage, and he was alone. Taking a running leap off of the stage, he sprinted for the exit. _I'm coming, Ryou_.

* * *

From his minimal experience with the Pharaoh's soul room, Tristan started to piece together a plan. There must be a logical way that the soul rooms were laid out… it had to be something simple, like an office or a closet or a classroom—

_That's it! It has to be one of the classrooms_. It was only a matter of figuring out which classroom was Ryou's room. He got angrier just thinking about Ryou, held captive within this mental prison… he didn't deserve to be here. And once he found Ryou, he would put the Spirit of the Ring in Ryou's place and leave him to rot in _his _world forever.

At least he had gotten used to the shadows. At first he had stopped in his tracks upon seeing the hallways flooded with them; wherever a person would be, their shadow was all that was present. He would nearly trip over his own feet to get out of the way if a shadow headed towards him, but once he stopped trying to avoid them they merely lingered off to the side. It was as if Bakura was still toying with him—he was going to have to do better than shadows to keep him from finding Ryou. Shadows moved alongside the walls, often disappearing into rooms. To him they were like ghosts, remnants of the people who would normally be at the school. They haunted him.

He would often turn and look behind him, and the shadows continued to wander, each the same size and shape. It was as if they were a single person shattered into a thousand pieces… in each shadow he saw Bakura.

He would also look behind him to keep checking the fact that as the shadows had no physical presence, he had no shadow. It made him feel invisible to the rest of the shadow creatures lurking around the halls, but it also made him even more acutely aware of the differences between himself and Bakura. Bakura held a shadow. In the shadows, everything they touched turned to darkness

The class bell rang, and it was a clear reminder to Tristan that his time was running out. The shadows paused before darting to classrooms, as if something was drawing them to the specific rooms. One by one they vanished underneath the closed doorways until the hallway was empty.

Something seemed wrong. It took him several moments, but then he realized what had happened, what he was going to do next, and it filled him with hope.

The shadows had gone under every door in the hallway—except for one. That one had to be an important room. Maybe it was…?

No. It couldn't be that easy. It had to be a trap. But he had to try.

Tristan flung open the door and stepped inside.

The classroom was empty, the desks neatly lined, the projector screen lowered, and the shades on the windows drawn. He wasn't sure why he expected anything different. The door swung closed behind him as a bright light announced the fact that the projector screen was playing… without a projector. Tristan looked down. He was standing where the projector should be.

Upon the screen were numbers, counting down: 3…2…1…

Tristan watched his dream play out on the screen before him.

"_Why are you telling me this?" The Spirit of the Millennium Puzzle was sitting at some sort of game table, but it was a game that Tristan had never seen before. There was a wide expanse of desert, and a twinkling ribbon of blue… with a sickening feeling, he realized that it looked like the Ancient Egypt in his dreams. _

_The Spirit of the Ring, Bakura, was sitting opposite him, looking incredibly comfortable in the chair, as if to him, it was a throne. His voice was mocking. "If I give you a glimmer of hope it will be that much more devastating when it comes crumbling down. You see, the moment that they discover your true name their excursion will be cut short by my newest pawn."_

_The Pharaoh slammed a fist upon the tabletop. It was then that Tristan saw the swirling fog surrounding the table. They were playing a shadow game? Would the future of… everything… be determined from this one game? Were the players just those two, or did everyone play a part? "And who is this pawn of yours?"_

_Bakura smirked, and in that moment looked directly at Tristan. "Oh, I believe you know him quite well. As a matter of fact, he was a faithful friend of yours until he lost his mind."_

Tristan kept replaying Bakura's last lines over and over in his head and the images stayed, flickering on the screen, unable to leave him. He wasn't sure what to believe. Was this another trick of Bakura's? Was it a glimpse into the outside world? Past, or present?

Most important was what he didn't dare to even think about. _I… I lost my mind? How is that possible? I didn't lose my mind, I lost my body… my mind is right here, in—_his_ world_… He didn't want to accept the fact that in coming here he might have already lost.

Maybe this was all just another dream… if it was, Tristan wanted to wake up. He didn't want to be here anymore. Maybe he really was crazy, and this was all something his mind made up… but then Bakura had said that Tristan couldn't create a world like this. For once, he agreed. This was too twisted.

"So you're showing me what I'm missing? Trying to raise my hopes?" His voice seemed unusually loud in the room.

"_If I give you a glimmer of hope it will be that much more devastating when it comes crumbling down," _came the projector's response, Bakura's sneer showing his amusement at the joke.

"You won't give me answers? Fine, I'll find them on my own!" Tristan exited the room, slamming the door behind him. But as far as he went from the room, he still couldn't shake those last words. It unnerved him. It unnerved him how much Bakura knew that it would unnerve him.

"… _until he lost his mind."_

* * *

Tristan paced the hallways of the school (though he didn't remember there ever being this many hallways; he wondered if it had really been that long since he had gone to school or Bakura's mind was this multilayered). He was alone, and the fact that the shadows were gone made everything seem positively eerie. It was completely silent except for the sound of Tristan's own breathing, and for a moment he considered knocking something over simply to fill the silence. It wasn't like it was his home or anything.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Bakura's voice was dark and threatening. Tristan was getting tired of this routine, and besides, where did he come from? Bakura remained clothed in that mockery of a school uniform, but everything about his posture and his expression screamed fury. He couldn't be this angry over something as small as a tipped over desk; it had to be something else.

"Mad that our side is catching up?" Tristan taunted, his arms crossed. "Maybe we're not as powerless as you think."

Bakura's angry scowl changed, and the corners of his mouth lifted. "Then perhaps I should make the next round a little more… _interesting_," and Tristan thought of a dozen other things that Bakura might have meant instead of 'interesting.'

"Give me your worst!"

"As you desire." Bakura's voice sounded almost silky. In swift strides he crossed the hallway and entered the corner room. Without even thinking, Tristan followed. He was sick of playing this game. He wanted answers.

He was in an art room. Bakura was gone, and now Tristan felt like an idiot for blindly rushing into this room; now, he would have to face whatever Bakura had in store for him.

When he walked past a small TV set it flickered to life as if activated by his presence. On the screen Tristan watched, too shocked to be angry, as he saw that this clip featured… himself.

"_I thought you three were down for the count, but apparently you don't know when to quit." Tristan felt his stomach clench. This was all wrong. Not even in the past, when he lived that life, had his voice ever sounded that cruel. Even the self-satisfied smirk he wore plastered across his face like it belonged there was completely wrong. Couldn't they see that it wasn't him? They were his friends!_

"_That's it!" Joey stepped forward and faced his best friend. "Consider this friendship over, Tristan!"_

Tristan knew Joey better than anyone, which meant that he knew when Joey was serious. Now, any one of his friends would have known that. It scared him more than anything else he had gone through yet. The strength of their friendship had gotten them through so many scrapes, and now it was all over? He felt numb.

_That's it. I've had enough_. "Bakura!"

"Why interrupt this now, when the real fun is about to start?" Bakura crossed his arms, looking away and appearing particularly interested in a wall painting of a single red flower under glass.

"Take me to Ryou. _Now_."

Bakura grinned, and to Tristan it was different from any other smile of his he'd seen yet. His eyes lit up, as if the game was now finally starting. "I'll consider it… but of course, I don't do anything for free. You would have to give me something in return."

"Name your price," Tristan kept his eyes on Bakura as he moved languidly through the tables, as if drawing out every moment. He slowly made his way towards Tristan, like a hunter who knows he has caught his prey.

"Kiss me."

"You want _what_?!" Tristan instinctively felt himself take a large step backwards.

"Give me a kiss. That is my price, as you so kindly offered. Take it or leave it. Consider yourself lucky… I could have asked for something much worse." Bakura was now standing directly in front of Tristan, who was doing his best to pretend like he wasn't there at all.

Gulping, Tristan looked at the man before him. There was no way he could pretend that it was Ryou… they were about the same height, though, so it wouldn't be too awkward. Besides, he had to do this. He would do anything to get to Ryou. Quickly, before he lost his courage, Tristan leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bakura's.

Before he knew what was happening, Bakura's arms were around him and he was pressing back. It was like an impossibly deep void, and Tristan had already fallen too far in to ever hope of going back.

Bakura pulled back first, wearing the same self-satisfied smirk that Tristan found only slightly less irritating this time. "Your debt is paid. In full, and then some." Turning to leave the art room, he beckoned for Tristan to follow him.

Bakura traversed the hallways of the school with ease, and before long they found themselves in front of another door. How he could tell them all apart Tristan would never know, but upon opening the door it revealed a staircase. Wordlessly they climbed the stairs until they reached the top floor landing.

They were in another hallway, this one only with a few doors spaced far apart. The walls and floor seemed grimier, evidence that this part of his mind was often neglected. Tristan fumed, _these_ were the conditions that he kept Ryou in? It was like they had entered an entirely different place.

Bakura went up to the second door on the right and retrieved a large silver key from his pocket. The door swung open on rusty hinges. Bakura stood in the threshold and motioned for Tristan to enter first. "See for yourself."

Tristan all but ran inside the room. It was dark; there was some ambient light but there wasn't a source… it took Tristan a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Ryou! Can you hear me? Where are you?" His hands stretched out into the darkness as if they were reaching for him.

Tristan could hear Bakura's footsteps as he entered the room and shut the door behind him. Tristan stumbled blindly around the room, feeling the cold stone blocks under his fingers. His hands reached each corner of the room, and only when he was sure he had walked over every inch of the space did he face Bakura.

"You told me he was in here," Tristan could barely contain his fury. "I swear, if you don't tell me where Ryou is—"

"Do you want to know?" Bakura's voice was hushed, as if the space was almost sacred. His eyes glittered in the darkness as he stepped into the center of the room. Tristan could plainly see now that the room was empty save the two of them.

"Yes. Tell me."

Three words sealed his fate.

"There is no Ryou. There never was." Bakura's voice was devoid of any inflection; there were no hidden agendas or manipulations now. Tristan felt a shiver pass through his entire body.

"The person you know as Ryou was gone the instant he touched the Ring. He summoned me, and we played a little game, not unlike the one we just played. And in the endgame, in his final moments… Ryou lost. Do you understand? Every time you thought you were talking to Ryou, it was me. Every duel, every day, every damned cup of tea, it was me. The one you want to protect doesn't exist. The one you fell for… is me."

Tristan took one step back, then another. "No… that can't be… how could you…?" All those times he had protected Ryou, every moment, every feeling… went to _him_? He felt nauseous. His back pressed up against stone, there was nowhere else to go. Bakura stood between him and the exit. He understood now that there was no escape. There never had been.

Bakura moved until he was standing right in front of Tristan. The smile he wore now was completely triumphant, and Tristan knew without any words spoken that he had lost. Bakura was about to claim his prize.

Tristan's head was bowed, and he could see his feet, and the shadow that stretched from them alongside the wall. Bakura leaned his head down to whisper in Tristan's ear, like he was sharing a secret. At last, his world was complete. _The power and the glory… _"_Forever_… I win."

* * *

**The End.**

* * *

Footnotes: 1. _Moretum_ is the title of a poem by Virgil, considered by many scholars to be the original source of the phrase _E pluribus Unum_, or 'Out of many, one.' Fitting, right?

2. Just to be very clear, the endgame of this story takes place in the setting of _Mind Games_.

3. Any references are purposeful, if you've got a question about anything, review/PM me, and I'll clear things up.

4. This story beta'd by the amazing Jess! Thanks!

_Thank you for reading, and please leave a review to share your thoughts on the story with me!_


	2. Morendo

Set Post-Series, no more than a semester after the last episode. This builds on the events of _Moretum_ and _Mind Games_, but is more of a direct sequel to _Moretum_, which is why it is included here. This story departs hugely from canon in one respect, which you will soon discover. Written for Round Three of the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Challenge Pairing Protectshipping: RyouxTristan, with a side ship of Mori. **Dedicated to Ryou and Jess**, for without their support of the original, this story would never have come to fruition.

"Morendo"

* * *

It was the third night that week that Tristan woke up, drenched in a cold sweat, fingers clenched into fists and chest heaving with loud breaths.

He was thankful that he was alone this time; one night he had crashed at Joey's place, too drunk to get home, and then the dreams had been far more vivid—and far more difficult to explain.

The sun was just starting to peek above the horizon, so Tristan started his day a little earlier, showering and fixing himself some coffee. The dreams—he still called them that; _nightmare_ just had this aura of finality he wasn't quite ready for—were always the same, and always ended the same way.

_"There is no Ryou. There never was." Bakura's voice was devoid of any inflection; there were no hidden agendas or manipulations now. Tristan felt a shiver pass through his entire body._

_"The person you know as Ryou was gone the instant he touched the Ring. He summoned me, and we played a little game, not unlike the one we just played. And in the endgame, in his final moments… Ryou lost. Do you understand? Every time you thought you were talking to Ryou, it was me. Every duel, every day, every damned cup of tea, it was me. The one you want to protect doesn't exist. The one you fell for… is me."_

_He felt nauseous. His back pressed up against stone, there was nowhere else to go. Bakura stood between him and the exit. He understood now that there was no escape. There never had been. What was worse, every time he looked at him in the dim half-light, he couldn't help but see his face—Ryou's face—overlaid upon Bakura's. It was barely visible, like the dream of a shadow, but Tristan could see him, eyes wide and plaintive, crying out for help._

"_Find me."_

Tristan's whole body felt jumpy, the hairs on his arms rising up in a wave. He hadn't even settled down when he slid into his seat for school barely a minute before the bell. Today would be a day ran on autopilot, he could tell.

Lunch was quiet and uneventful as usual. Their group was already floating apart, and there was this tacit understanding that they weren't going to do anything to stop it. Tea was already gone, chasing her dreams in New York thanks to an early acceptance program for only the most gifted artists. Yugi and Joey were all set to duel the tournament circuit after graduation—they even had sponsorship from some big names, although KC would never be one of them. They rarely talked about the 'good old days,' and never talked about the darker, razor-sharp edge that the world had balanced upon during that time.

Tristan never even thanked Yugi for saving him—he had felt too strange after that day and with everything that had happened, he felt selfish for intruding on what was rightfully Atem's moment.

The truth was that he had already lost, and if Yugi hadn't won the duel to bring him back, _he_ would have—

He often wondered, at moments where things were a little too still and a little too silent, what would have happened if he hadn't been pulled back from that world. He had looked down and seen his shadow, and he felt himself sinking back into it, through the rough-hewn wall of stone, away from rooms and corridors of other shadows and trophies sent to keep him from winning their game.

From his shadow he knew he was coming back, back to the light and away from _him_.

He looked across the table and prepared himself for the familiar pang of sorrow and frustration when his eyes scanned over the missing spot in their lineup.

They had never found Ryou Bakura.

Together they had saved the world, they had finally done it, but when they had returned back to Domino the terrible news had destroyed what had been rebuilt of Tristan's own world. They had been told that the report had been filed, but that nothing had been found and no one had seen him leave. Even after Tristan himself had applied to start work with Domino's local law enforcement nothing had come of it. It was just as he had said._ "There is no Ryou. There never was."_

He refused to give in but day by day he found himself weakening to the terrifying possibility.

It was something that nobody mentioned any more but everyone felt, and he carried that burden with him every day. He knew the unspoken words that were on everyone's lips, and he knew that none of them understood. Except Yugi… he knew well the loss of someone who had tied them all together, but it wasn't something either of them brought up. He never told anyone how he felt. He had never even told Ryou.

So he did what he could to get by, and shuffled his feet along day after day, and nearly forgot how to hope.

* * *

Lieutenant Shuzo Ohtaki was the best boss a lowly intern at the Domino Police Force could hope for, but he was punctual to a fault, and Tristan was lagging behind, probably lost in the facility's deceptively large suite of rooms devoted specifically for storage of case materials and evidence.

"Tristan?" He called, weaving his way down the rows of filing cabinets stacked to the drop-tiled ceiling. "You still alive back there? Didn't get swallowed by an avalanche of papers?"

He found Tristan by the filing cabinet of their most recent cases, rifling through a manila folder stickered with several brightly-colored labels. "You know we've got to leave now so we can escort that convicted gang leader to court." He stopped short at the intense look of concentration on Tristan's face. "Is everything okay?"

Tristan's eyes looked through the Lieutenant rather than at him. "The case of Ryou Bakura is still open?"

"Yeah… that missing-persons case from a month or so back? It was a strange case, and none of the evidence seemed to stick. It almost seemed like he… disappeared."

Tristan slipped the folder back into its designated slot, reminding himself to come back to it later. Not only was this an opportunity to finally do something good, something meaningful—one of the reasons he wanted to join the force in the first place—but maybe in seeing this through he could fulfill one of the promises he had made to himself.

* * *

Riding his motorcycle was one of Tristan's simple pleasures—it broke the monotony his daily life had sunk back into. It was one of the ways he felt he still had some measure of control over his life. Tristan coasted to a stop at a red light, thinking that he could extend this trip, even drive across Domino, simply because he _wanted_ to.

Of course, there were always errands to run and places to go—Tristan's life hadn't exactly been his own ever since he came back. Even his nights were constantly plagued by _those_ dreams… they had been getting worse, leaving his body more fatigued with each day. He laughed darkly into the faceplate of his helmet. Maybe _this_ was Bakura, come to take his revenge—

"_Now, do you really think that I would do something so crude? That's not my style."_

_That_ voice echoed around the space under his helmet as if caressing the air. Tristan's body froze; he felt a shiver run down his spine to his legs, sticking his feet to the pavement. Even though the light was still red, he was immobile. The only thing racing was his heart, as if it could compensate for the rest of him and carry him far, far away from—from…

No! He wouldn't think it. He couldn't say it. It was his mind, playing tricks on him.

"_Think what you will… it doesn't make that much of a difference."_ The voice was just as he had remembered: the low pitch, the slow, languorous tone, as if each word was carefully measured. _"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"_

"We… were never friends." Tristan ducked his head a little when he spoke—it felt odd, speaking to, well…nothing. He still was not about to open that door that had stayed shut for so long.

"_If you're so anxious to label it, perhaps you should head to the other side of the spectrum_." Even though he couldn't see him Tristan could practically hear his smile. He quickly pulled the throttle and drove up several more blocks, coming to a stop beside several shops, their plate-glass windows catching the light of the sun.

"Why are you here?" Tristan found himself whispering, even though he doubted he even needed to say anything. First the dreams and now this… he could feel the last strains of his sanity slipping away. The real question that he just couldn't ask was, 'why won't you leave me alone?'

"_We have a connection—I'm sure you remember that much."_ Before Tristan's eyes the images of hallways flooded with shadows, men with no faces, and a single spotlight on a wooden stage danced. He turned his head away from them towards the curb and froze on the other image there.

He could clearly see his own reflection in the glass windows of the storefront, and the distinct shimmer of another person filling in the space behind him on his motorcycle. The shimmer grinned at him. _"Did you miss me?"_

_Like hell I do!_ Tristan wanted to crank the throttle for all he had and get as far away as he could from this, this madness, but again he found himself unable to move. Bakura's image in the window shifted, and Tristan forced himself to close his eyes as phantom limbs encircled his waist. The hairs on his neck stood on end from the breeze that might have been _his_ breath at his shoulders. Bakura moved his head, tortuously slowly, until his lips were inches from Tristan's ear. _"That's not the half of it."_

The light turned, and Tristan's head cleared just as the image of the Spirit shattered in a ray of sunlight from between broken clouds. He rode like a madman until he was finally home, but at every turn, he couldn't help but glimpse over his shoulder to make sure that he was alone.

* * *

_"You're in my world, don't forget," Bakura chastised, leaning down to whisper in Tristan's ear. "You follow my rules… and I'm not exactly known to play fair."_

_"So now this is some sort of game?"_

_"Is not everything part of a bigger game?" Bakura smiled, and his mind briefly flickered back to a table in the middle of a shadowy void, set with two players and the highest of stakes. "You're here, in my mind. Ryou, also, is here in my mind. Find him, and you win. If you lose, then you're mine. In more than body, but your mind, your soul—_mine_."_

_Tristan couldn't see Bakura but he knew that he was grinning, already taking his victory. He wasn't about to go down that easily. Especially when there was more than just his own fate at stake._

_"And like I said… I don't play fair." He released Tristan, who immediately brought his arm, tingly from the release of force, back to rest naturally at his side. "I know what you're thinking. You want to find Ryou so that you can __protect__ him—"_

_"I want to protect him from people like you!" Tristan circled once more, his eyes blazing at how calm Bakura looked._

_"You're doing a remarkable job of it." Bakura looked bored. It was infuriating. "Now, you're racing against the clock. And remember—while you're trapped in here, your body is my pawn, and your pitiful friends don't even realize it yet… wonder how long it will take? …I wonder what I can do in that time."_

_"And when does the clock start?" Tristan's voice appeared angry but he knew that it was a front. This was a test, and he was always terrible at tests. His heart started to race, and to him the beats sounded like the seconds of a timer, ticking down until __game over__…_

_"Five minutes ago."_

Tristan woke up to the shrill ring of his alarm clock instead of the buzzer from his dream, chest heaving as he sat upright in his bed. In his dreams, everything seemed so stark, yet it was his reality that was bleak. He ran a hand through his hair, which had become matted over his forehead while he slept. Not for the first time, he wondered where Ryou was at that moment. He had to be somewhere, he just _had_ to be.

As he got up for his day yet again, the words from the dream stayed with him that day, try as he might to shake them.

_"Is not everything part of a bigger game?"

* * *

_

Tristan reached into the half-full basin of water and splashed a handful onto his face. Through red-rimmed eyes, he looked into the mirror, seeing rivulets of water running down from his forehead to his chin.

"_You look tired… are you sure you don't want to _rest_ for awhile?"_ Tristan jerked his head around, eyes narrowing as he took in each corner of the empty bathroom. When he turned back to the mirror, the image of Bakura was corporeal as ever, leaning casually against the white-tiled wall and buffing his nails against the sides of his jacket. Tristan frowned… he had a feeling that if he let his guard down for too long, he would later regret it.

"Your concern is touching. Now leave me alone." Tristan began to scrub at his face, hoping the water would wake him up a little. He had nearly fallen asleep in class that morning, and wasn't about to let it happen again.

"_Believe me—I couldn't leave if I tried. Besides, you want me here. You called out to me. You've never been able to forget me."_

Tristan stopped, his eyes burning into the Spirit's reflection. "Ryou. Not you. Never you."

"_Don't you remember? 'There is no Ryou. There never was.'"_ He sneered, crossing his arms. _"If you want Ryou, then stop looking for him."_

Tristan closed his eyes and closed Bakura out, reaching back into the basin to scoop another handful of water out. Briefly he considered throwing it at the mirror but then decided against it, merely letting the water trickle down through his fingers.

* * *

Whenever he was alone in the evidence storage room, he immediately focused on the cabinet that housed Ryou's folder. He was tasked with organizing the materials in the room… technically, devoting a little more time to some particular materials wasn't a little too out-of-bounds.

Ryou's folder held a few sheets of paper, typed out with his personal details—all of the information duplicated from school and governmental reports. A small color photo was stapled to the top of one of the sheets.

"_That file is terribly inaccurate."_ Tristan felt what might have been the puff of breath and the rustle of fabric—on impulse he pulled the papers closer to him rather than farther out so that Bakura could read better from his position behind him.

"What would you know about it?" His voice guarded, he turned to the next page, a map of Domino with several places circled in a heavy black pen. He wondered how Lieutenant Ohtaki would react if he said that the prime suspect was a voice inside his head. The thought wasn't reassuring.

"_What don't I know about it?"_ Bakura spread his arms out, palms up.

"Cut the crap, Bakura—I have a job to do." Tristan turned back to the folder.

The next piece of paper in the folder had the interview of Ryou's father. Tristan read that and several other accounts from neighbors, a little annoyed that he could even feel Bakura sulk—as if being ignored was a rare thing in his lifetime. _"Ryou was much better at this—you're a terrible landlord."_

"Yeah, well you're not that great of a tenant either. Where's my rent?"

More than a minute went by where Tristan and Bakura stared at each other, unspeaking. Tristan's face gradually brightened in understanding, Bakura's darkening as he felt the corners start to come in around him.

"Yeah! You can't camp out in my head for free!"

It took only a moment for Bakura to revert back into his indifferent mask, his smile calculating a cold. _"Name your price, then."_

"I want the truth." Tristan responded immediately and with conviction.

"_About Ryou?"_

"About everything."

"_Well then, since you asked so nicely,"_ Bakura looked Tristan directly in the eye and Tristan found that he could not look away. _"The truth is that I lied. But what did you expect? Like I said: I don't play fair."_

Tristan motioned for him to keep talking, and with a tight-lipped smile Bakura continued, _"I said that there was no Ryou. The truth was that despite my best efforts, he…escaped, from time to time. One of those times was around you. The last time, he tried to run. He should have known that I'd find him."_

Tristan's fingers clenched into a fist. "Where is Ryou now?"

Bakura's smile deepened, his eyes shining behind his expressionless mask_. "Do you really want to go down that road again? Would you be willing to risk it all—again? To go into my world this time, without Yugi to save you?"_

Tristan's fists flexed once, his mouth set in a steadfast line. "Answer my question, and don't lie: Where is Ryou?"

"_He is somewhere—deep, deep within my mind. Would you like me to take you to him?"

* * *

_

The abandoned church was on the edge of a park, surrounded by a cluster of trees. The façade was of cut stone, with a large covered entry. Tristan had never seen this church before even though he knew the area fairly well—his own house was only five blocks away. He stepped past the door, half-open on its hinges, and walked into the airy space inside.

A gap in the ceiling where the roof had caved in left a place for the sun to shine in, illuminating the spacious room. The glint of organ pipes dominated one wall, and as Tristan walked straight into the middle of the room, his footsteps echoed on the stone in-between where puddles had formed from the recent rain. He turned around at the room's center, noticing that the stained-glass windows were all broken off at an equal height, several feet above the window ledge. "What happened here?"

"_Ryou tried to run,"_ Bakura said, nodding at the center of the room, where Tristan himself was standing. _"I'm not sure where he was headed, but suddenly he veered off to this place—as if he could be safe here."_

Bakura smirked, walking slowly down to join Tristan in the middle of the room, taking special interest in the floor behind him. _"I made sure that he would never escape again."_

"_I want to make sure you understand the rules of the game."_ Bakura spread his arms wide, as if the entire space was his domain. _"Your goal is to find Ryou, and then get out. My goal is to stop you, by whatever means necessary. You will be in my world this time and at the highest disadvantage—like I told you, I don't play fair."_

"I don't care." In Tristan's eyes there was something beyond compassion that Bakura could not define.

"_Don't say I didn't warn you."_ Bakura's eyes suddenly took on a strange sort of glow, and before Tristan could react Bakura shoved him backwards. Tristan stumbled back once, twice, and then fell towards the puddle covering the stone behind him, turning his head as quickly as he could do anticipate the impact. Instead of meeting the thin film of water, his body disappeared through the puddle—first his left side, then his right. The last thing he saw before his head disappeared completely from that world was Bakura, advancing slowly to where he had been.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

There was nothing.

Yet there he was.

Tristan opened his eyes to find that he was surrounded by darkness. He reached out his hands and they traced the outline of a door. He found the handle and turned it—as the door opened a jolt of light shot out of the space around the doorframe. Tristan opened it fully and stepped into a room.

The long hallway was plushly carpeted in red, with closed wooden doors placed symmetrically in either direction. The door he had stepped from swung shut behind him, and he heard the distinct click of a lock. He didn't even try the handle.

Tristan stepped down the hallway, noticing then that he was wearing different clothes than before—instead of the uniform he usually wore he was clad in dark pants with an ironed crease down each leg. His shirt was starched white linen, and his jacket was dark blue with black buttons.

He didn't try any of the door handles… he walked down the hallway in the direction of the music.

At the end of the hallway he found himself at the top of a staircase landing. Below him was a parquet pavilion, where dozens of similarly-dressed figures waltzed around a string quartet. Tristan slowly descended the stairs, noticing how the chandeliers sparkled. Thick red curtains covered one wall.

None of the figures seemed to notice his entrance, and as he bumped into one, he understood why.

The woman had no face. No distinguishing features of any kind.

He slowly backed away, the memories flooding back. This was another trick of Bakura's, he knew. He was definitely spooked, and more than a little unsettled, but Bakura would have to work harder to stop him.

"Welcome to the party!"

Bakura's voice sounded oddly resonant in the open space—although filled with people, none of them spoke. Only the musicians continued to play, drawing the current song to a close.

"You should dance… it is only proper." Tristan turned around, his eyebrows arching at Bakura's lavish costume. In this world, Bakura truly was the ruler, with an entourage that could never challenge him.

Before Tristan could say anything the orchestra had drawn their bows for another song, and he found his hands clasped in Bakura's. He took one step backwards, then another, noting with distaste how Bakura filled in the space that he had just left. Bakura spun him once, his arm creeping to Tristan's shoulder blades. "Watch it," Tristan cautioned, brows furrowed.

"Lighten up and enjoy the party," Bakura grinned as they floated around the room to the rise and fall of each melody. "Your attire suits you."

"I'll bet you picked it out," was Tristan's dry response. They spun once more, Tristan's back to Bakura. "…you say we have a connection, from…" '_From when you possessed me and almost trapped me inside my own mind for ever_' was a bit theatrical, he knew, but Bakura seemed to understand. "…Why? Why me, why all this?"

"It wasn't all Ryou, you know," Bakura's response was kept light, as if they were talking about the weather. "Most of the time it was me, when you thought you were talking to him. I didn't think you could tell the difference between us, on any conscious level. But subconsciously I knew you could. When I was inside your mind, I found out the truth."

Bakura couldn't help but smirk as they continued backwards, his arms around Tristan's in a mock-embrace. "We have a connection. I chose you—you'd do well to remember that. "

They spun to the music as it began to slowly die away. The ambiance made Tristan feel light-headed, and when Bakura leaned in, he instinctively looked down.

All he saw was shiny floor, reflecting the glittering crystal of the chandeliers. Only two pairs of feet, and no shadows stretching beyond them.

No shadows…

Tristan's head snapped up, his nose nearly touching Bakura's. "I—I have to go." He tore himself from Bakura's hold and darted from the ballroom, panting heavily. It was partly a trap, he knew, set by Bakura to distract him…but at the same time, he felt a shred of truth within it. While dancing, while he enjoyed the party as Bakura had commanded, he had wondered what it would be like to live like that forever. No consequences, no stresses… just… _no!_

Ryou. He had to find him.

Tristan ran down another corridor, his shoes soundless on the carpeted floor. He descended several flights of stairs before arriving at another door—the only door in this part of the Manor. "Here goes nothing," he whispered, gently opening the door.

He was in a stone hallway—definitely underground. Tristan stepped cautiously into the space, feeling in the back of his mind, that this was too familiar. Had he been here before?

Instantly several figures ghosted down the hallway as if pulled from Tristan himself. Their voices were undecipherable, echoing in the tunnel, but he followed them as the two men in suits moved down the tunnel, where he was greeted with an earlier representation of… himself.

This other, incorporeal version of himself was glaring at the guards he was surrounded by, the collar of his long jacket flapping with the movement. He shifted the figure on his back as he moved, as if cradling it. Tristan recognized the figure as Mokuba Kaiba.

Duelist Kingdom…? Then this means…

As if on cue, Bakura stepped into the scene, taunting the guards. He pulled a card and rings of light encircled each opponent. Not a moment later, the two of them ran from the hallway, Bakura beckoning for Tristan's doppelganger to follow him.

Without a second thought, Tristan followed them. He could hear their conversation as they left the tunnel and ran up a stone stairway. "What did you do back there? You used that magic card… but for real…"

"Not now, they're still behind us!"

They reached a ledge and Tristan knew what was coming. He stopped to watch the scene play out in front of him—his alter nearly fell off of the edge, not suspecting the path to suddenly stop, and was saved only by Bakura pulling him back just in time.

Once they were safe, the other Tristan turned to him, knowing even then that he was someone else: "Who are you?"

"Only someone with great power."

Tristan saw it repeat again—there was a flash of movement and a glint of metal and the Ring went flying off of the platform into the forest beyond. The scene began to dissolve just as the image of Tristan knelt down beside his prone companion and Tristan stepped through it, returning to the stone hallway. This wasn't Duelist Kingdom; this was the Manor house of Bakura's mind.

Once again he was in front of a door.

He grasped the handle and pulled it out towards him, unsure of what he would find—after everything he had seen, he knew Bakura's mind was unpredictable, but he never expected the door would lead to _this_.

He opened a door into a world of green foliage overhead and packed dirt beneath his feet. Half-filtered light drifted down through the trees, and as the door swung shut behind him, he thought he could detect what might have been a path. He set off, moving away from the house and further into the unknown.

He followed the path for what felt like hours, winding down one valley and up another twisting path before the land tabled to a vast plateau, and as far as Tristan could see the horizon was an unbroken field of stalks and flowers. He looked closer at one distant point, where the line was broken in a small rise of what looked to be a person…

Tristan's heart clenched, and he started to run.

Dust and petals floated in the air as he rushed by, his arms swinging by his sides, his feet moving as fast as he could make them. It was Ryou—pastel sweater, pale hair, even paler skin despite his being outside.

"Ryou! Ryou!"

Ryou barely looked up from his position seated on the ground, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he plucked another flower from the ground and wove it into a chain. He reached for another, and another, and another…

"Ryou, it's me, Tristan." Tristan sunk to the ground near him. "We have to go now."

"…But I'm not done yet." Ryou's voice sounded so small, as he directed his attention back to the chain. "I can't leave until I'm finished." He grabbed another flower and added it to the chain.

Tristan reached for Ryou's arms, and even immobilized his fingers still moved as if he were threading invisible flowers together. Ryou looked up at him. "You have to let me finish."

"Snap out of it!" Tristan nearly shook him, he was so frustrated. He had come all this way and put his very life on the line—for this? "Ryou—please, please listen to me…"

"I have to finish, I can't stop…"

Tristan did the only thing he could think of in that moment—he pulled Ryou, now struggling in his grasp, towards him and kissed him, hoping that Ryou would come back to his senses because he loved him and wasn't about to take no for an answer anymore.

He pulled away, noticing that Ryou had become very still. "Ryou, please come back to me… I love you, and we have to go now if we're going to make it out of here alive."

"…Tristan?" Before his eyes Ryou was taking on more color; everything about him seemed more vibrant and he knew that his Ryou was back. Ryou launched himself into Tristan's arms, laughing for the first time in ages.

Slowly they got to their feet. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Leaving so soon?"

Bakura stood at the beginning of the field, his faceless entourage behind him, their postures menacing. His face was downright enraged. "Tristan, you know what this means. I'm not giving you another chance."

Tristan turned to Ryou, then back to Bakura. "I've got him back. If we get out of here, then we win. You have to hold up your end of the deal."

"You won't win. You won't escape."

"Run!" Tristan pulled Ryou behind him as the crowd surged for them, moving swiftly across the field. Tristan ran into where the field met the forest again and they followed the path down another hill.

"What are we going to do?" Ryou shouted as they ran.

"Improvise!"

Their path forked and they chose the right one, following a steep drop further on their right where the land abruptly plunging into the water, the spray of the waves against it louder as they ran.

"Damn it!" The path dead-ended in front of them—surrounded on all sides by water. They had chosen wrong…

The waves crashed around the promontory, a constant reminder of their time running out.

"Like I told you, you can't leave." Bakura had caught up to them. "It's over. You played the game well, and I must commend you for it. You got closer to the end than I would have guessed. But now it's time for me to take over."

As he stepped forward, Tristan scooted back, putting Ryou behind him. The waves crashed against the cliff again, and as he looked out to the water, in its reflection he could see the shadow of clouds peeking through a gap in the roof where the ceiling of the church had caved in.

"That's it!" Tristan grabbed Ryou's hand, turning to lunge into the water. "We have to jump now!"

Bakura reached out and snaked his arms around Tristan's neck, squeezing mercilessly, almost hugging Tristan to his chest. Tristan coughed as the rest of the air in his lungs was depleted… he could barely hear Ryou screaming, and now everything was losing its color. Had a minute gone by? Two? His legs kicked out and his arms were latched over Bakura's, but he could feel the last of his strength disappearing with every second.

Bakura waited until Tristan slumped against him before releasing his arms, and then hugged him to his chest. "Like I said: you're not going anywhere. I have you right where I want you now." He smoothed Tristan's hair as he spoke.

"What have you done to him?" Ryou had tried to free Tristan, but he was too weak to do anything, and now Tristan was… Tristan was… "You murderer!"

"No, Ryou. _You_ killed him. He came here for you." Bakura gently rested Tristan's body on the ground and knelt beside it. "It's time for you to go back, too…" he smiled, his voice lilting despite the sharp edge to his words. "And now you'll have a friend to pick flowers with…"

Ryou stared down his own personal demon who had controlled him for so long. Bakura wouldn't win… not this time. Ryou ran towards him and tackled him in the side, pushing him to the ground. Ryou continued to punch and kick. "You won't come after us anymore!"

He jumped away and tried to pick Tristan up as best as he could. His last words rang through his mind: _"That's it! We have to jump now!" _Ryou gritted his teeth, hauled Tristan to the edge, and threw them both off of the cliff and into the water.

Instead of feeling cold, or tasting salt, there was nothing. They disappeared under the water's edge, and the last thing Ryou saw was a large house in the distance collapsing into dust.

* * *

They were back.

Ryou sucked in mouthfuls of air, greedily drinking in the sight of the sky visible through the ceiling, his own hands, and the church that he had run to. He hadn't been able to reach Tristan's house—he should have known—

He ran over to where Tristan lay motionless on the stone floor. Ryou checked his pulse, then instantly started to press his hands onto Tristan's chest, _one-two-three-four-five_, opened his airway, and breathed for him. He kept on repeating each motion, _one-two-three-four-five_, then two breaths, then more, and more, and more.

It didn't seem to be enough.

Ryou could barely see through his tears as he continued to try. "Tristan, you have to come back! You can't just leave me now, after everything… please… don't do this…"

One-two-three-four-five. Two deep breaths. One-two-three-four-five. Two deep breaths.

Tristan jolted upwards, nearly knocking Ryou over as he sat up, his lungs pumping air back into his body on its own. It took a minute for his head to clear.

"Ryou… you saved me…" Tristan's voice was weak, his throat raw, but he managed a smile for Ryou, who was blinking back fresh tears.

"Of course… you saved me." Ryou hugged him, a wide smile on his face. Ryou helped Tristan stand and they moved slowly to the door of the church.

"My head…"

"What about it?" Ryou replied instantly, his tone worried.

"It's empty."

Ryou's face clouded over in confusion, his head shifting back and forth in a double-take. "…Wait, what?"

"Oh! No, I mean… I can't feel him in my head anymore. It's just me." Tristan turned to Ryou, who was still supporting him on one side. "What about you?"

"Right as rain."

"Good." They kept on moving away from the abandoned church, Tristan pointing the way to the closest pay phone. They had to get to a hospital.

Tristan looked down at Ryou, feeling happier than he had in a long time. The only questions he had now were how he was going to explain this one, but also how he was going to celebrate their victory.

_I win._

At last, his world was complete.

* * *

The End.

* * *

Footnotes:

1. Morendo is a musical term meaning to slowly die away, referring to dynamics or tempo.

2. Lieutenant Shuzo Ohtaki is an OC borrowed, with permission, from My Misguided Fairytale's story _11:59:59pm, _although you may recognize the name from one of the members of the Big Five.

_3. Thank you_ for reading and _please_ review, I value and treasure each one.


	3. Maison de la Rochenoire

Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest Round Five; Dollshipping: BakuraxDark Necrofear. Yeahhhh. So, what this is… it's hard to explain. This is something of a prequel to _Moretum_, _Mind Games_, and _Morendo_; really exploring Bakura's journey throughout each piece, so in addition to the challenge pairing, there are shadows of mori and protect. Written to the _Inception_ Soundtrack, so there you have it; introspectionlikewhoa. And ask yourself this: would you believe something told to you by someone completely insane?

* * *

"Maison de la Rochenoire"

* * *

In the beginning there was light. Yet as darkness is the absence of light, he assumed that even before that one critical moment of illumination, darkness had always existed. He knew that it was true because it had told him so. He was set apart, singled out, alone because he was special.

He saw the fire and smelled the smoke and shrunk back into the darkness that spoke to him of safety and life. _Live_, it whispered, _and you will have justice. Let me in, and you will have power_. In that one blinding instant day was like night and he was born again into the shadows, his life raised up for something far greater than just himself. And when his body crumbled into dust and he closed one set of eyes and opened another, he found himself in a new land, a different land, a space of far away and deep within. _Do you want to come into the Ring?_ It called, its voice dark and seductive. _Do you want to live forever?_

"I do," he said, eyes glittering as he slipped one hand over its golden surface.

At first there was nothing, just the darkest void that stretched, empty, for as far as he could imagine. In this beginning there was no light, merely himself, Bakura, although there was no one there to call him by any name. _You are the darkness_, it whispered in the void, caressing his hair as it slid around him. _We are one and the same now._

"What do I do," he said, more to himself than to any other, and he could almost feel it laugh around him, pulsing in this vacuum of both space and time.

_Hold out your hand_ was its reply, and the irony was not lost on him. He raised the hand that he could not see and gently pressed outward, his fingers flexing over the solid surface. His fingers saw what his eyes couldn't in the darkness, and they smoothed over the plane of wood, tracing its contours and finding its corners. It wasn't long before they clasped over the handle of the door and it turned, the crack of the door jarring against its lintel as loud as a rocket in the emptiness of the first room. Light flooded around the door as he gradually pulled it towards himself.

With that room now flooded in light he felt a strange sort of apprehension clouding his features. Should he turn back and see what had surrounded him? What would he find? What would be the price for that knowledge?

There was a danger in that, in knowing. Best to stay in the darkness, for now.

He stepped outside, with unspoken promises to return—they both felt it. This was the portal to the other parts of himself that he had split over time and would split again in the future. In the darkness, there was everything—and as such, there was nothing.

Bakura stepped out into a hallway, bland and undecorated. "This will never do," he murmured, and in a blink the walls were red, the floors stained a dark mahogany. Doors materialized along each wall at regular intervals, each one closed, still a part of the void. He hadn't decided what to make of them yet.

He memorized the location of the door he had just left and set off, his footsteps echoing against the wood of the floor. He wanted to survey his domain.

.

Days turned into months and months turned into years and all the while, he built up an empire. As gilded ages rose and fell so he gilded his mirrors and draped each ceiling with stones that others would call precious. Stairways were split down the center by runners, and tapestries with the complexity of a mandala were woven before his eyes in a matter of seconds. He placed items at will, building on his whims and purposes, for the world would eventually turn back to him, and he knew this well.

He didn't like to think that he dreamt, because that involved shutting down a part of himself, of admitting to that weakness that was altogether decidedly human, but he did close his eyes and contemplated his universe, and planned for when he was given another chance. Sometimes he would sit for hours that felt like seconds and simply breathe in all that he had created. It was all his, and there was nobody to stop him.

There was nobody…

.

One day, quite suddenly, he opened his eyes. Seeing but not quite seeing, he stood up and wandered down the hallway on shaking legs. He knew where he had to go, and staggered to one particular door where he knew that there was a staircase. The handle turned rustily in his grasp, and as he entered the room dust motes hovered around him, slightly filtering the light that had no source. The staircase was wooden and very, very old. His hands led the way as he clung to the banister, down one step, then another. The walls were faded and worn; they might have once been white.

He wasn't sure how far down he descended. He kept going deeper in, inside the fortress that his mind had created, farther down into spaces that he didn't even remember thinking up—but he must have, because there they were. There came a point where he didn't quite remember how he got there or why, yet his feet continued to descend the stairs, his hands gripping to the worn wood banister.

He had to admit, it was lonely in this maze of rooms and corridors that were all his. No one could see his creation. He didn't know how much time it would take before he completely fell over the edge. He didn't despair, or wish—he had given up on both ends of that spectrum long ago. He simply planned, and waited.

Things seemed to be changing, in a very subtle yet strange way. He could feel the weight of time diminishing, the pages turning backwards, signs of newness and oldness intertwined in the treatment of the walls and the accoutrements of ages gone by.

His feet touched the rough-hewn stone of the floor and he left the stairs behind, now ducking under one graceful stone arch into the room there.

It looked ancient, the walls painted with what once were vibrant colors now faded and muted. Columns jutted out from the walls at regular intervals, supporting the weight of everything above it. He only saw _it_ when he was completely into the room; propped up in a niche set into the far wall. Trancelike, he knelt in that space, the small gap in the wall, and pulled out the remains of the baby doll, broken and battered, eyes lifeless and unblinking. He stared back, eyes lifeless and unblinking, and felt the oddest tightening in his chest and tensing behind his eyes. His body was telling him something that his brain would barely define and his mouth couldn't quite put into words.

He opened his eyes.

.

It was the first of many, and Bakura thought that it was accurate enough for his purposes. He stared back at the nameless, faceless figure in front of him and with a swift nod of his head it went off, to fill another part of the mansion with noise and activity. He watched it leave, noting that it cast no shadow from its feet. He knew without looking down that he did not have one either, bound to this place as he was.

With time they had been getting progressively more mature until now he stared back at them, only slightly dissimilar to himself. He stared back now only slightly taller than his creations. They would be useful in achieving his ends. He thought it amusing, almost, that he had spent such a length of time in solitude, but he was no longer alone.

.

Time after time he always found himself back in that room beyond the stairs, only he didn't remember how he had gotten there or what he had been doing just before. He repeated the ritual; only this time when he opened his mouth he poured forth each and every thought within him—his wants, his desires, his plans. He continued to move his lips, cradling the creamy white surface of the broken and battered doll staring back and into him.

It never had any words for itself so Bakura gave them to it to absorb for sustenance. In a rare moment of self-awareness, he shuddered in the dim half-light. "I suppose we have a lot to catch up on after several thousand years."

.

It wasn't the first time he felt faint as he glided wraithlike across the halls of his Mansion. He kept his head high, only sinking into a gilded red wingback chair when he had arrived at last to his own private rooms. He chanced a look to the ceiling, thoughts straying to the state of the outside world. There was nothing here that could harm him—it had to be from out _there_. Beyond the Ring. Everything here was his creation; this was his domain.

His eyelids felt unbelievably heavy—he figured it wouldn't hurt to close them, for just a moment—

.

"Don't look at me like that. I know that none of this is real." Bakura looked out across the room at _it_, oddly tinted in the fading light. "But it's real enough. Enough for me at least. For now."

He looked oddly surprised, mouth rounding into an oval. "What will I do? You must know that this is practice—my palace, when I win and will have a new domain, will be modeled after this one." He smiled wistfully, his eyes clouded with the thoughts of money spent a thousand ways, of the dethronement of kings, noble in their surrender, of his ascension. "Here, my desires become reality. I am the kingdom, I am the power—I could even destroy you, if the thought but crossed my mind…"

He drew back, features smoothing over into another mask of pleasant indifference. "But you know I would never do such a thing… you're far too valuable to me."

"It is so nice having someone to talk to, after all this time." He paused for what could have been hours, or maybe seconds, lips quirked in a half-smile. The doll across from him glimmered faintly with a sinister promise, dark eyes staring into him, eyes that now seemed to flicker with the faintest signs of life.

In the space of an instant he discovered himself back, lying against a rich red carpet, knees pulled up against his chest, and with the most curious feeling of being watched. His throat felt like sandpaper and his back ached, strained as it was in this position, leaning against the wall. He raised his hand and gently touched his face with two fingers, realizing then while looking at them how pale his skin had become, no longer the dark hue of the thief. He had never noticed the changes in himself, even over all of that time.

.

Other times when he came to he was completely alone, and wondered if there had been anyone there to begin with.

.

On a seemingly ordinary day he was pulled from the cocoon of his Mansion. The darkness spoke to him: _It is time._

He stepped into a room that he had locked away inside himself, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. "I am ready."

His name was Ryou; alone in the world, with no friends of any consequence—at least, not anymore—and although he was petrified, he jutted his shoulders forward in a mockery of courage. Bakura smiled—he quite liked his new host. He had gone without one for so long.

"W-what are you?" Ryou had a voice high and clear as a bell and for one shuddering instant Bakura wanted to know what it would sound like when he screamed.

Like a moth, Bakura stepped into the light. Yes… the wait was over at last. "I am forever. Would you like to play a game?"

Ryou ran, unaware that he had already chosen; hid, without knowing that he had already lost. He shrieked as Bakura approached, holding the Ring in one hand, the fingers constantly moving to caress its surface. Amazing how something so small could contain so much… He looped the string of the pendant around both of their necks, leaning down so his forehead just barely brushed against his host's. His breath ghosted against his ear. "You're coming with me."

.

Ryou had such _interesting_ friends.

The loud girl and the two punks were common enough in his eyes, but in the boy—and the man behind the boy—he could feel the presence of another, of someone like him. So he watched, and he waited, and at the right moment, he followed.

.

"There's no way you can leave anyway, so at least I'm giving you something nice to look at."

He walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back as if he had all the power in the world and all the time he needed to use it. Ryou ambled behind him, eyes consistently drawn to the opulence surrounding them that Bakura constantly hinted at.

"Would you like to join in the dance?" They had arrived at the top landing of a staircase, looking down into a ballroom filled with figures twirling and twisting in waltz-time, making their rounds about the room much like spokes on a wheel, points on a circle that left them wanting for nothing.

"Ryou?"

But Ryou had turned and ran, disappearing around a bend in the hallway, hair floating out like a cape behind him. It didn't matter—he would come back eventually. Bakura scoffed—how rude, to turn from his hospitality like that.

"What's that? Oh yes, we are well on our way—Yugi is more oblivious than we thought," and the dance of figures became a dance of words—he turned to his right, where he imagined it would be if it could choose a position in the room. The doll was there, flushed cheeks and dark, slowly blinking eyes, and a half-moon of a smile. Behind it was something like a shimmer in the air, something not completely formed or shaped at all.

"You wouldn't believe how advanced the world is, beyond the Ring," he continued. "It hangs on the precipice, ready for our conquest. It is just so… complicated. So twisted already with darkness and shadow—"

So perfect and imperfect, and he wanted to be there again, now, and build a structure not unlike this one—

He continued to talk, to pour out his thoughts but this time it felt different for both of them. Bakura was no longer living for the future, for the time when his plans would come to pass because that time was now, and they both knew it. He didn't notice, so enraptured as he was, that the half-moon of a smile had become a malevolent grimace. If he had seen the signs, he might have seen it coming, might have thought to change his ways.

"…But the show must go on, isn't that right?"

.

"He _what_?"

Bakura stormed through the halls of his Mansion, feet leading the way to that one particular room that had become his portal. Bakura was fuming. How dare Ryou, to think that he could just go against everything like this! The entire place was in an uproar. Ryou had escaped—back to the real world, without a doubt he had left to warn his so-called friends all about what he had seen, what Bakura had let him see. He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. This was not happening. He did not make mistakes—

His hand froze on the gold-hued doorknob that refused to turn. The door was not admitting him, would not open for him! He slammed both fists on the door's surface, shouting as if Ryou was on the other side and could hear each word.

"When you come back…" And he would come back, the door couldn't stay shut forever; they couldn't stay separated forever. They were like two sides of the same coin, and couldn't escape that magnetism even if they tried. "When you're back I'll make you wish you were dead…"

He couldn't stand not knowing what was happening outside. Thousands of years had passed since he had last touched the surface, and now that he had a taste of it again he craved it with every part of him, yearned for it with every passing second. He feared that just one more touch of it could destroy him yet what he wouldn't give for it all the same.

No dolls, no broken and battered companions of ages gone by, no places of far away and deep within. He wanted to break free. He wanted to go outside.

.

"Tell me what happened." Bakura had Ryou by the arm, tugging him along an expanse of darkness until he had arrived at the room he had made specifically for him. It was also dark, with rough-hewn stone blocks and iron bars. He shook Ryou when he didn't answer, pulling his resisting host along the path until they stood in front of the cell. "I want to know!" His voice boomed in the cavernous space.

"After Tristan threw the Ring away… it came back. I don't know why it came back. I thought I was free of you, of this place," and Ryou shuddered, shivers and goose bumps wracking his arms, "I don't want to be a part of your plan; I just want my life back!"

"You should know that once you're bonded to the Ring you can't easily break free. I won, if you'll remember correctly. Now, you say that _your friend_ threw the Ring away? I'll have to make a note of that…"

"Don't you hurt Tristan!" Ryou thrashed in his grip, fists arcing through the air to land weakly on their target. Bakura started to laugh as his host continued to struggle in his grasp.

"If you're a good prisoner, maybe I'll think about it," he said, locking the door securely once his host was inside. "Don't look so sad… I just need you out of my way, for now. One lifetime is nothing compared to spending thousands of years alone."

He left; there were matters he needed to take care of on the surface. And he'd like to get to know Tristan a little better…

.

On a deceptively ordinary day, he appeared again at Ryou's cell, keys clinking against each other on a large metal ring. "Moving day." His voice lilted as he spoke, grabbing his host by the arm and pulling him back towards the main part of the Mansion.

"Why?"

"These rooms need to be… repurposed. Why, do you want to go back there?" Ryou shook his head, stumbling on the stone blocks that made up the floor.

"There's so much you don't know—about me, about all of this. Would you like to know? Knowledge can be both light and dark, illuminating and damning all at the same time. It can save you… or destroy you. It's a chance; if you want, you can think of it as a game. I know how much you like those."

They were back at the ballroom, Bakura pulling Ryou down the richly carpeted stairs. "It's only a matter of time before it is my time—"

He stopped, dragging Ryou behind him, his grip on his host's arm tightening.

Before them on every parquet square of the ballroom stood a person. Each one was immobile, each shell one of his creations, nameless and faceless. The doll lay before the statuesque phalanx as if to stand proxy for its general. Bakura had never seen something so bizarre, so unexpected, that for a moment he said nothing at all. "Let us pass," he announced, his voice loud and sure. When none of them moved or gave any intimation that they had heard him, he spoke again, his voice more controlled. "You are my creations and you will obey me."

"You have lost sight of what is important." Before his eyes the baby doll shifted, morphing, its limbs growing outwards, turning from flesh-colored to something less decidedly human; a blue that seemed to pulse and glow in the center of the room. Metallic casings wrapped its arms and chest, and when it stood up to its full height, it might have been taller than him. Its eyes were narrow and the expression of pain within them was directed entirely at him. "Do you remember how you used to talk to me, how the days would pass like seconds, and the years like hours? You were slowly going mad, alone in your own mind. I saved you."

"I created you, and I will tell you for the last time—" He snarled, eyes blazing at the challenge.

"You did not create me, you discovered me." It regarded him coolly, lips twitching into a smirk. If it was true that the eyes were the windows to the soul, Bakura knew that the figure before him was a soulless leech. In its eyes was nothing but raw emotion, consumed by wants, desires, fears. What Bakura had given to it was being reciprocated back to him. "I was always there, at the back of your mind, you just had to go deep enough to find me."

It twisted to its side, and picked up something behind it. Bakura could see the doll, eyes devolved back into their original state, lifeless and unblinking. It cradled the doll-child in its arms, and when it spoke, it was as if it was murmuring to it and not to Bakura at all. "_We_ are the darkness that lurked in your own heart. A truth that you had once hidden from yourself. We are as old as the Ring itself, and have been waiting for our moment much longer than you. Yet, we are forever, and owe it all to you—words are power, thoughts and actions powerful. Yet you abandon us for such superficial pleasures. There is nothing up above that cannot be attained right here."

"You're jealous." Bakura always prided himself on the ability to read people, and could see that in its eyes. "You're confronting me because I don't have time for you anymore? You always knew that this world was never meant to last. I will escape, and you won't stop me. Without me, you've lost your source of power." He clutched Ryou to his side, staring down the army of shells and their commander, judging the distance between them, wondering if Ryou could run fast enough to get away. He can't think about his host and fight them off at the same time.

"And you've lost sight of what's important. Me—I am your past, present, and future. Hopefully, with time you can come to see that."

On cue, the mass of bodies swarmed towards him, giving him only enough time to push Ryou backwards with a command to "run!" and dart through the twisting mass of people, this mockery of a dance. He sidestepped another figure that charged him until he was face-to-face with this monster that he had let grow out of control. It rushed at him and sensing an opportunity he swiped at the doll still held tight in its hands.

In the seconds that it took for the doll-child to fall, it became the eye of the storm of chaos in the ballroom around it. It hit the parquet floor with a loud crack; pieces of itself breaking off into subsequently smaller fragments. It separated completely in half, torso and head skidding to the feet of the blue-skinned monster before him. He looked down at it and realized that it was hollow, nothing more than a doll. It had all the power now.

It screamed; a high piercing wail, immediately bending over to pick up the broken pieces of the doll-child. It cradled the pieces, broken and battered, looking up at Bakura with eyes full of hate. His arms had been grabbed by several of the faceless figures, and at another scream he looked over at its source, seeing Ryou also being held captive; his face completely blank, in shock over what he had seen.

"Why?" It asked, voice breaking. It held one half of the doll in its arms, a hole in the top of its head where it had landed on the hard wood floor, and its left arm were all that was attached to the torso. "Why _them_ over me?"

Bakura shrugged, ready to go down swinging if things were as bleak as they appeared. "You're just not my type."

He laughed, long and dark and mirthless, and leaned back into the crowd. He felt hands grabbing at his arms and hair, but simply closed his eyes, letting them carry him away. The last thing he saw was Ryou slumping, arms still supported by two other figures, completely drained from the fight.

He wondered who out of them all was the real prisoner bound by the Ring.

.

Back to that room, the place that had started everything. He was falling into an infinity of darkness with no concept of time or space. It was only when light started to creep in around the slowly opening doorframe did he realize that he was in fact standing upright, not falling at all. He had paid the price to stay in the darkness. With a newfound resolution he spun around to see what else was in this darkest room.

"You!"

_Me_, it said, voice dark and seductive as tendrils of shadow began to reach towards him. _Surprised?_ It sounded pleased. Half in the shadows loomed a familiar form. Its blue-tinged skin faintly glowed in the darkness and it still clutched the remains of the doll-child in its embrace. _You went deep enough that first time, deep enough into the collective unconscious of the Ring. You found us_, its eyes flashed briefly at the memory, _part of the ninety-nine that had been taken on that unspeakable night. We are one with the darkness and one with the Ring. You will not refuse us. You will not refuse our connection. Do you understand?_

"I do," he said, eyes fluttering open, seeing in his mind's eye the tendrils of shadow becoming a cord binding them both together, and at its center was the Ring.

_You can have what you want_, it said, leaning closer towards him, _if I get what I want._ Slowly the cord tightened, drawing them both closer together, closer to the Ring. _Merge these two worlds. Blur the lines between them. There is one game left, with the highest of stakes_.

"I will not fail you."

.

What does it feel like, to have your soul ripped in two? To think that everything is lost; to be faced with mortality after thousands of years? When Bakura washed up against the rocky shore that his Manion overlooked, he wasn't quite sure how everything was still in one place. The structure itself looked battered, with bricks raining down from its façade as the sea thundered against the black rocks of the foundation around it.

It wasn't until he looked up and saw a reflection in the clear stillness of the sky did he realize exactly where he was. Having multiple projections had finally saved him—he had taken up residence inside Tristan's mind; scraped together relics from his time spent there previously during his endgame with the Pharaoh.

When he looked up to the sky it was as if he was seeing the road from inside of a store, looking out through a window. He focused on one particular individual, keeping pace with him—a man on a motorcycle, and Bakura knew who he was even with his helmet on. He grinned wickedly. Even without the powers of the Ring, he could still get what he wanted. _Who_ he wanted.

He found Ryou, who hadn't left the fortress of his mind since even before that last game, in the ballroom. In the transition to the new mind the mirrors lining the walls of the room had fallen, and the red drapes billowed out through blown-out windows. Bakura scratched at one parquet square with his foot where several gashes had torn through the wood. Other, lesser things had broken on this wood. Yet, this was all it took to slice through such a surface.

Ryou was cleaning, making small piles of mirror shards and crystal. "Ryou," Bakura called, stepping around the fragments to reach his former host. Ryou did not stop moving across the room, he didn't look up at all—he gave no indication that he had heard him speak at all. "Ryou, listen to me."

Ryou turned towards him after putting the mirror fragments he was carrying down into a neat pile, intent on picking up the shards near Bakura's foot. Bakura inhaled sharply; those eyes…

Grey, lifeless… they reminded him of ones he once knew. Had Ryou been like this ever since that one confrontation in the Ballroom? They dragged him away and Bakura hadn't seen him after that; he had other matters to deal with—other games to play, against the Pharaoh, against Tristan that played out here, in his new host's own mind.

"Why don't I give you something else to do… then you can come back." He couldn't have Ryou here, in the Mansion, not with how he had begun to plan things.

"…back?" Ryou's voice was small and fragile, a broken voice for a broken shell.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet." Bakura pulled Ryou away from the Ballroom, under the arch of a doorway that appeared an instant before they crossed under it and disappeared just as rapidly. They walked down a newly formed path as plants began to spring up all around them. The road twisted around the uneven terrain and they followed it until the land tabled out in a vast, unbroken stretch of earth. In an instant, the field was covered with flowers, their petals swaying in the breeze.

"Wind these all into a chain, and then you can leave."

Ryou dove for the ground, fingers hurriedly plucking one flower, than another, winding their stalks together into the beginnings of a chain. "chain…leave…" He reached for another.

"Yes, you only have to finish." Bakura's eyes darkened and the field doubled in size, the field stretching out seemingly endlessly. "Someone will find you later to see how you're doing."

Bakura left, lips lifting into a smile at his plan. When had it stopped being so much about rebuilding a new world than in bringing what he wanted most about that world here, into his?

.

He watched as Tristan pulled Ryou back; watched them happy and whole. Choosing each other over him… not part of the plan. "You won't win. You won't escape." Tristan was meant to bring him back, and now that they were both here and whole, he would make sure that they stayed that way.

.

Bakura hadn't meant to kill Tristan, but he just wouldn't listen, wouldn't see reason. This was an all-or-nothing game. He didn't know that Ryou would draw strength from his emotion, from that very different type of magic. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, and in one second Bakura had pieced it together, had come to the terrible realization of his inevitable fate.

He barely stopped Ryou from diving off of the ledge with Tristan's body in tow, finally pulling instead of being pulled. The ground was shaking all around him, and Bakura knew that there was no way out of this one. No other projections to fall back on, no mental fortresses to save him now.

The fortress in the distance crumbled into dust, its walls collapsing inwards. Bakura calmly walked through its shaking corridors, noting that the stretch of hallway was just that; doors no longer lined its sides. He entered the ballroom; the crystal falling from the chandeliers all around him made high-pitched sounds as they shattered against the wood and crunched under his feet.

He decided that he would leave without fighting. He had done nothing but fight for thousands of years, but it was time to turn around and face the light. How sad, then, that he was alone. All those he had wanted had turned their backs on him and the only thing that had wanted him he had led into destruction.

The mirrors once again were toppling over, cracked and fragmented along the still-standing walls and floors of the expansive room. He could see his own reflection in them; eyes lifeless and unblinking.

He was the child, broken and battered, that had never been allowed to grow old yet had lived for thousands of years. He was the child that the dark monster had cradled so lovingly, had always watched out for. He was the child that had so selfishly built up empires and collapsed time so hours felt like seconds. He was the child that fell, broken, to the floor. He could feel the grain of the wood underneath his cheek.

In the end, he did not have time for fear or anxiety. He did not have time to shout or swagger like he would have done before. He had time to remember. The stillness of the desert at night; the light of fires that burned like the sun. Dust motes lingering in the air over a staircase that wound down and down. Rings and Puzzles and several others that at one time had meant everything to him.

He had time to regret. In his mind, he stood up, happy and healthy and whole, and was joined by a litany of followers with the beginnings of names and faces. Together, they totaled one hundred, and when the music began to play they began to dance, rotating around the room, resplendent in its splendor, like spokes on a wheel. He spun at its center, joined by a mysterious blue-tinged figure; and they danced.

In the End, in that last instant, all he could see was light, and he walked into it.

* * *

The End.

* * *

Footnotes:

1. _Maison de la Rochenoire_ is a fictional house featured somewhat in _Fever Dream_ and other books by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child—in their stories, this house got burned down by the townspeople because the house was scary and the people living there practiced voodoo and were all kinds of weird and insane. The phrase translates to 'House of the Black Rock.'

2. Light and darkness have some great connotations in books; light meaning illumination, knowledge and darkness meaning the lack of knowledge, being 'kept in the dark.'

3. The scene where Bakura goes down the stairs is a Jungian reference to the very first of his own dreams that Carl Jung interpreted. He kept going down and down (symbolizing going even deeper into the collective unconscious); going back in time and at the bottom of everything he found a skull. It was what gave him the idea for 'archetypes' and some things having shared meanings over unconnected groups.

4. My take on Dark Necrofear's history is that the baby doll is from the collective unconscious of the Ring; which means the people that made up the ring. That's why it's a doll, and why Bakura comes to identify himself with the doll—for everything that they were denied because of what happened. The doll only is able to morph to the blue monster-thing after taking power from Bakura himself, from Bakura talking to it and spending time with it. It is jealousy, anger, confusion, and a host of other negative emotions that cause the shift into the Dark Necrofear that we are all familiar with. And since the monster is directly connected to the Ring, it couldn't survive the transportation to Tristan's mind—the Items were all sealed away, so it was sealed away too.

5. For the record, I'm not trying to make any statements or whatnot with some of the lines of with Bakura's creating-people thing (read: some religious references), I just still see him as a child who has never grown up past the 'mine!' phase and twists that idea onto people as well as things. And if Bakura was trapped inside the Ring for thousands of years (I didn't want to narrow it down any further because the Egyptian arc is rife with historical inaccuracies) he's had a lot of time to slowly go crazy.

6. I've always wanted to write a nice, proper story about a person's life flashing before their eyes before they are about to die, and I hope that I've done so successfully. The short vignettes represent bits of his life as shown throughout the other stories that he's been involved in that I listed at the beginning—and this story is the conclusion to this series. _Thank you_ for reading, and _please_ review, I value and cherish each one.


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